


The Archive

by MediaevalMuse



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediaevalMuse/pseuds/MediaevalMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After learning the nature of his identity, Loki seeks out answers regarding his birth... but where can he find such information when all of Asgard doesn't know what he is? Features some characters from Norse Mythology, angst, and a conversation with a severed head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Archive

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've ever posted anywhere or even shared with anyone. I would appreciate any feedback! Special thanks to Lilyhandmaiden, who beta read for me!
> 
> Side Note: the beginning features some recap of what occurred in the movie, only to set the scene and establish some emotional turmoil. I promise, the whole thing isn't a summary of the film scene!

“In the aftermath of the battle, I went into the Temple, and I found a baby. Small for a giant's offspring. Abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey's son.”

The Allfather’s voice was stiff, but traces of compassion laced the words that dropped from his lips. He stood as a warrior might: strong, composed, and resolute… a visible reminder of the battle on Jotunheim. It was history for him, an event from a time of conflict that the Allfather would rather not remember, but to Loki, the words unlocked the hidden prison of his origin, long held captive behind the golden bars of Asgard’s fineries. Those words seemed to reshape Loki’s whole being in an instant, from the very clay of his body to his diminishing pride as a son of Asgard. Loki’s chest felt hollow, and his cheeks grew cold as the blood drained from his face. Surely, he was not a Jotun, a creature from that icy world brimming with death and poisoning the nine realms with its putrid existence. Why had Odin permitted them to live all these years? What more… how could he truly be the son of the Jotun all Asgardians had come to hate from the time they were children, the son of a king of a dying race. A vile race. A gluttonous, bloodthirsty nest of vermin. How could he be the offspring of _that?_ As he let his gaze drop to the ground, Loki could only choke out, “Laufey's son...?” A pathetic attempt to comprehend his existence.

“Yes,” Odin replied, after a pause.

Loki’s mind reeled, steeped in confusion and brimming with a thousand queries. Would not the son of a king be missed by his father? Why would he be abandoned on Jotunheim? Because of the Jotun’s failing forces in battle? Because of Odin? Why not destroy the Jotuns for good? He was obviously not wanted. Abandoned, Odin said. Left to die. Why not take something else more precious? Yes, Odin had taken the casket, the icy blue cosmic source of all the Frost Giant’s power, but their powerlessness had not deflated their lust for battle and domination. So why had Odin not broken them completely? Nothing felt right, and Loki’s heart began to flutter back to life in agitation. His breath came more heavily, and anxiety and panic filled his veins with a heat that seemed inappropriate for a child of Jotunheim.

“Why? You were knee-deep in Jotun blood. Why would you take me?” he demanded.

“You were an innocent child.”

Lies.

“No. You took me for a purpose, what was it?”

The Allfather was silent, his one good eye gazing directly into Loki’s face. He seemed unashamed, but his unwillingness to speak reeked of betrayal. Odin’s silence pricked at his heart and Loki’s desire for information was burning him up inside.

“Tell me!” he screamed, despair beginning to flood through his voice. He felt tears brimming in his eyes, and he struggled to keep them concealed. Odin pulled his shoulders back and seemed to void all compassion from his reply, though nothing that came from his lips filled the emotional hole that had formed in Loki’s core.

“I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day, bring about an alliance, bring about a permanent peace... through you.”

Loki’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What?” he whispered. An alliance? When he had been told from childhood that the Jotuns were the enemies of Asgard? Was he a hostage? But was he not _abandoned?_ Tears dripped silently down his face at the thought. 

“But those plans no longer matter,” Odin said.

Loki could feel his breath quicken again in frustration. More lies - and he was the god of them. He was not taken for love. Not for compassion. Not even pity or future hope. He was no prince. He was a trophy, one proudly displayed before all of Asgard for years without his knowing, a tribute to Odin’s glorious victory. How many of his kin knew this? Did they look up at him with hate? He, the son of the creature whose armies slaughtered hundreds, perhaps thousands of Asgardian husbands and brothers and daughters. 

“So I am no more than another stolen relic, locked up here until you might have use of me,” Loki spat.

“Why do you twist my words?” Odin interjected, but Loki could not restrain himself any longer.

“You could have told me what I was from the beginning. Why didn't you?”

“You are my son. My blood. I wanted only to protect you from the truth.” Odin’s face was blanching, but Loki pressed on. ‘My blood,’ indeed.

“Because I… I am the monster parents tell their children about at night?” His skin was alive with rage, and suddenly, everything seemed clear to him. So this was why Thor always sat at Odin’s right hand, why Loki could see a special twinkle that glistened in the Allfather’s eye when he saw his brother best an opponent in mock combat, but not a word was awarded to Loki when he first learned to cast illusions, and why Volstagg and Hogun and Fandral and Sif preferred Thor’s company to his.

“Don’t,” Odin protested. He turned his face away, which was all the confirmation Loki needed. Now, all he wanted to do was to hurt Asgard’s king the only way he knew how… with his words. Though it would not be lies he would tell. No. The truth pierced deeper into the heart, and that’s what Loki endeavored to do.

“It all makes sense now, why you favored Thor all these years!” The edge to his voice cut the air between himself and the Allfather. Odin slumped to the ground as the weight of the truth seemed to press on him, giving Loki a new surge of righteousness. He began to ascend the staircase. No longer would he look up to the Allfather. Now he would rise above him, stand above him. He was superior. He was right. He was the victim in this story of Jotunheim, but he would not be pitied for it.

“Because no matter how much you claim to ‘love’ me,” Loki shouted, “you could never have a Frost Giant sitting on the throne of Asgard!”

The words “Frost Giant” tasted bitter on his tongue. “Asgard” felt as a foreign presence on his lips, though he had spoken the word so many times before. He has no language to call his own.

He hadn’t noticed Odin’s hand reaching out for him until it fell, the fingers brushing the hem of his clothing with a gentle desperation. The Allfather had collapsed on the steps, and now, all of Loki’s hatred and anger left him as suddenly as it had come on. He panicked. His father lay helpless, burdened by all the emotional conflict that hung in the air around him.

Only he was not his father.

But how could he still feel worry and pain and loyalty? Stunned, he knelt beside the body of the Allfather and placed a hand gingerly on his shoulder, hoping the touch would somehow revive him. When he didn’t move, Loki shouted out to the guards and stepped back as they entered the vault and swiftly carried the Asgardian king away with all the dignity of a fallen hero. They would bring him to his private chambers, and Frigga would care for him with all the grace befitting a queen.

Frigga. Oh, by all the nine realms, did she know? How could she have endured to touch him, to embrace him as her own, knowing he was a _thing._ Loki did not want to see her now. He was too raw… and too ashamed. He did not want to taint his mother with his presence, not until he knew more about what he was and where he came from - this time, without the embellishments of children’s stories.

With all of the palace aflutter with attendants rushing to complete their daily duties, Loki quickly and quietly slipped down the gilded hallways towards the manuscript archive. His boots made no echo on the marble floors. His eagerness to learn, to know more about where he was from, created a pit in his stomach that drained him of all other thought and feeling. It was like he had a disease, a virus that slept deep inside him but was slowly eating away at him. His Jotun blood polluted his body, making him a cancer in the body of Asgard. He must know more about this sickness. Maybe then he could find peace, learn to prove himself to be every bit the Asgardian his brother was.

Thor. His brother must not know, or else Loki would be dead. But maybe Odin had told him? He made a mental note to find out… and to know how to conceal himself. It had been chance that his brother had not seen what happened on Jotunheim, when the Frost Giant touched him. If Thor had seen, how long would it have been before Loki was among the casualties that day? He must find a way to keep his icy skin from resurfacing.

With every step, Loki felt himself grow more and more anticipatory, and when he finally reached the archive, he splayed his fingers over the massive doors, as if to soak up the knowledge that lay beyond them. The heavy archive doors were golden and engraved with elaborate knot work, yellow vines entwined with one another in a beautiful dance of delicacy and grace. They emitted from the base of a disembodied head, which was carved into the uppermost plate above the frame, nearly three times the height of an Asgardian. The face’s eyes were wide and piercing, set with sapphire stones that gleamed with welcoming light, and the tangles of his hair and beard were interwoven with the vines that decorated the doors. Two golden ravens perched on either side of the face, vines clasped in their beaks and eyes pointed down towards those who may enter. Loki had passed by them many times before, but now, he felt that those eyes knew him and what he was. They made Loki uncomfortable.

When he pushed his way through the doors, Loki found himself in the midst of the grandest library of Asgard. The floors were of the purest white stone, and massive golden pillars held up the vaulted ceiling, which was alive with the most brilliant colors of the nine realms. It depicted the innermost chamber of a temple, decorated in blue silks and white stone, in which a man stood clothed in the greatest finery – a red cloak about his shoulders, armor shimmering with the brightest of silvered scrollwork. The man held a drinking horn high above him, which emanated a warm yellow glow as gleaming silver water dripped down onto eager fingertips. It was poised over a well, also of pure white stone, from which the yellow glow originated. Bordering the scene were elaborate interlocking tree roots of the iciest blue Loki had ever seen.

Walking through the archive, Loki surveyed the place that he so often admired as a child. He remembered standing amongst the bookshelves and believing that they must reach up into the very sky, but he was much smaller then, and the golden shelves themselves were the height of a hundred Asgardians. The room itself was the length and width of four or five banquet halls, and the sight would have stolen the breath from anyone, even Loki, had he not been preoccupied with his thoughts. He knew exactly where to look for the knowledge he desired, and his feet took him past the pillars engraves with various scenes of the Allfather performing great tasks, all the while gripping the hair of a severed head which accompanied him in battle and in the throne room of the palace. Loki hadn’t seen this head before and wondered why it was so prominently displayed on these pillars.

But his musings could not occupy him for long, and Loki stepped onto a golden platform resting at the base of one of the massive bookshelves. It gently lifted from the ground, elevated by the magic of Asgard. It seemed to read his thoughts, for it took him to one of the shelves in the middle of the case, the place where the children’s stories were kept. He reached out a hand and softly touched the spines of the books. They were warm, and the leather gently gave way to his fingers. How many times had he heard these stories as a child? He remembered Thor as a boy, a red blanket tied around his neck and a wooden rod clutched in his hands. “Run!” he would scream, “You’re a Frost Giant, Loki!” He and Fandral, the sneakiest of the warriors who would also play a Frost Giant, would run away giggling as the others chased after them with makeshift swords. Sif’s hair was golden then. He remembered it and chuckled silently to himself at first, remembering Thor waving his stick in childish play and tackling his brother to the ground in a fit of laughter. “I’ve got you now!” he cried, red blanket falling over his shoulders so it draped onto Loki’s face. “Die, fiend!” His joy soon faded with the reminder that he really was a Frost Giant, and that should his brother ever find out, Loki would most surely be running from real swords. With a scowl, he pulled the volume from the shelf, letting its weight rest comfortably in his hands. The leather felt smooth against his skin, reminding him of the hours he spent reading as a youth. He had consumed stories by the hundreds then. He still did. Stories and books were his most treasured things, and he remembered the soft flap of the page as he eagerly soaked up the tales of old Asgardian heroes, the magic of the elves, and the craftsmanship of the dwarves.

He rode the platform to other various stacks, collecting war stories, histories of the stars, diagrams of the nine realms, anything that would illuminate his path to understanding what he was. When he had collected a fair pile of codices, the platform returned Loki to the ground, where he pushed the volumes with his hands and feet to the foot of the nearest pillar. He sat on the floor with his back to the pillar, preferring to read then and there instead of seeking out a table. Here he was solitary. He would not be interrupted.

The pages of the manuscripts moved with graceful motions, framing the runic script with more scrollwork and intertwining vines. Loki read the children’s tales first. He knew them by heart, as they were among some of Thor’s favorites and his brother had begged Odin to recite them over and over when they were children together. Loki remembered peering over Thor’s shoulder one day when he was young and catching a glimpse of an illuminated page depicting a large figure with claws and horns and large, pointed teeth.

“Who’s that?” Loki had asked. Thor looked back at him and rolled his eyes.

“That’s Laufey, the evil king of Jotunheim.”

“What’s Jotunheim?”

“One of the nine realms where the Frost Giants live.”

“What’s a Frost Giant?”

“They’re these big, ugly creatures that come and snatch up children and take them to their world where it’s always cold and snowing.”

“Why do they do that?”

“Because they eat them!”

Of course, Laufey didn’t really look like the picture. Loki had seen him. But even more frustrating was the fact that all the stories were the same. The Frost Giants come and snatch up naughty little Asgardians in the middle of the night. The Frost Giants are always trying to take over the nine realms, but the mighty Allfather rode his faithful eight-legged steed into battle and all the Jotuns cowered before his greatness. Some illuminations showed Odin, dressed in his brilliant silver armor and winged helmet, with his foot on Laufey’s chest, his staff gripped regally in his hand. Loki rolled his eyes and snapped the book shut. Tame. Nothing about the Jotuns except that they were mean and nasty and were defeated.

The war stories were better, but not by much. Skimming through the histories, Loki read about the war that caused a great rift between the Asgardians and the Frost Giants, as Laufey’s insatiable appetite for power pushed him to destruction. He remembered hearing these stories, the more bloody and gruesome stories, as a young adult. When Thor had a good day in training, he would tell the Allfather how well he had fared and ask that Odin recount one of his many victories on the battlefield at a feast. While Odin almost always declined, the singer in the corner would play a tune and relay a tale or two in eloquent verses, and Thor and his friends would drink their mead and enjoy the general revelries. Odin never spoke ill of the Frost Giants, but all of Asgard’s youngest warriors loved to use them as adversaries in their tales of triumph. Thor, especially, loved to postulate his future battle prowess against Laufey’s army. Loki remembered smiling at his brother’s happiness, but always felt a pang of jealousy, for he knew he would never be as glorious on the battlefield. At best, he could engage in close combat, slipping a dagger between his opponent’s ribs when he wasn’t looking. Never could he cut off the head of a Frost Giant or take down armies of Jotuns as his brother promised to do.

The maps and accounts of the nine realms described Jotunheim, and while they were the most informative, Loki had already seen this realm with his own eyes. They all said the same thing: Jotunheim was a realm of ice and snow, and the Frost Giants made their home under the mountains. The Jotuns were blue of skin and dark of hair, with blood-bright red eyes and black lips which hid pearly white fangs. They were twice the height of Asgardians and possessed the power to encapsulate their enemies in ice. All general descriptions of the race of giants. Nothing Loki had not seen before. Before Thor’s banishment, when he had accompanied his brother and their friends to Jotunheim to confront Laufey with an attack – or “lesson,” as Thor called it – he remember being transfixed by Laufey’s eyes. They seemed to glow and give off an eerie ambiance. Red hot against the cold blue and gray of the Frost Giants’ realm, it was enough to make him thankful he had told the palace guard of Thor’s intent. When the Jotun soldier grasped his arm, when he first became aware of his dubious patronage, the creature’s eyes seemed to look right at him, to his very core. It was as if he _knew who he was_ – who he really was – yet could not believe it. In a panic, Loki slipped his dagger in the fleshy belly of the beast, pushing those eyes from him in relief. Now, however, their appearance in the book was not enough to help him claim his own identity. _History is written by the winners,_ he thought, pushing the books away with frustration and letting his body sink back hard against the gilded pillar. The disappointment hung heavy on his shoulders, and his face flushed with anger for a brief moment before despair settled in, causing him to cover his face with his hands.

He needed to go to Frigga.

Though he felt as if hours had passed, Loki saw no change in the palace around him upon exiting the Archive. Asgard had not been alerted to the sudden state of the Odinsleep. They had no king, but they did not know yet. How long could they be held in suspense?

The guards let him into Odin’s private chambers without protest. He was a prince of Asgard still, but Loki felt almost traitorous, like he was penetrating the deepest secrets of his home. Suddenly, he felt very guilty about letting those Frost Giants into the vaults on Thor’s coronation day, not because they spoiled his brother’s glory, for that still gave him pleasure, but their presence in Asgard was like an infestation. Disgust with himself made his throat burn like acid.

His mother sat regally at her husband’s bedside, her lovely blond curls piled atop her head while a long strand fell over her shoulder like a golden sash. Loki remembered wrapping her hair around his fingers when he was a child. Only now did he realize the significance of his own hair being so much different… black. Not the curls of an Odinson. When he entered the chamber, Frigga looked up at him, and a small smile decorated her beautiful face.

“Loki,” she breathed. Loki looked directly into her gaze.

“I know what I am.”

“I know.”

“Was he ever going to tell me?”

“One day.”

Loki paused. “Does Thor know?”

“No.”

Relief flooded his body, and he breathed easier. If he could keep this knowledge from his brother… he would not give Thor any reason to look down upon him any more than he already did. Not if he could help it.

After a pause, Frigga continued. “I asked him to be honest with you from the beginning. There should be no secrets in a family.”

That word – family. It drove through him like a sword. He couldn’t be family. Odin had kept things from him. He was not worthy of his father’s trust.

“So why did he lie?”

“He kept the truth from you so that you would never feel different. You are in every way our son, Loki, and we your family. You must know that.”

He kept his eyes averted. He wanted to tell her, “Yes. You are my family.” But he could not bring himself to speak. He wanted to press her for information, ask her about his origins, but she was staring so lovingly at her husband that he could not bear to injure her while she was so worried about his fate. Loki looked at the Allfather through the golden haze that protected him. He seemed so lifeless, so helpless. It was so unlike the Odin he knew. He remembered the first time he saw the Allfather enter the Odinsleep, when Loki was very small. The attendants brought them into the chamber, the same one where he lay now, where the king of Asgard lay lifeless upon a bed of rich furs. Asgard had been prepared then, but no one had prepared Loki. He clutched the hem of Frigga’s dress and sobbed, frightened by his father’s unresponsiveness. Frigga shushed him and stroked his hair as Thor looked on silently.

“Don’t cry, my darling,” Frigga cooed to him. “Your father will awaken soon.”

“When?” Thor ventured, for Loki was crying too hard to speak.

“No more than a few days,” Frigga responded. She took her husband’s hand in hers and set Loki upon her lap. Thor reached out and touched his father’s hand as well.

“It’s alright,” Frigga urged, but Loki could not reach far enough to touch him.

“Father!” he cried. “Come back!”

“He is not gone,” Frigga said. “He can still hear you. Speak to him. Tell him about the stories you read today.”

And Loki proceeded to tell him the stories. Stories about dwarves and elves clothed in light and darkness and great warriors who solved riddles to best their foes. Thor told him about his adventures with Sif and the warriors three, though they were children at the time. When Odin awoke four days later, he smiled broadly at Thor and patted Loki delicately on the head.

And so it went every time the Odinsleep came upon them. Thor would tell tales about his training as he got older, and Loki would tell stories. But the older they grew, the more visibly proud Odin became of Thor’s progress, and Loki stopped telling stories.

“You can speak to him. He can see and hear us, even now,” Frigga now offered. Loki wanted to scoff at her. The idea seemed silly to him, after all these years, but he said nothing about it.

“How long will it last?” he asked instead.

Frigga sighed. “I don't know. This time is different. We were unprepared.”

“I never get used to seeing him like this. The most powerful being in the Nine Realms lying helpless until his body is restored.”

“But he's put it off for so long now, I fear...” Frigga trailed off, and Loki thought he saw a glimmer in her eyes. He wanted to reach out to her, to silently touched his fingers to hers and feel their warmth beneath his own. But he kept his hands clasped tightly together. He would not touch her with his sullied skin. “You’re a good son,” she said. “We mustn't lose hope that your father will return to us,” she told him, wiping tears from her eyes. “And your brother.”

Loki straightened his back and felt panic rush through him once more. Now that he knew, surely Frigga and Odin would reveal the truth to Thor. “What hope is there for Thor?” he asked, concern edging his voice.

“There's always a purpose to everything your father does. Thor may yet find a way home.”

She had taken his question for brotherly concern, yet it was not what Loki intended. More than ever, he wanted Thor as far away from him as possible, and Thor’s banishment to Midgard shielded Loki from his brother’s judgment. What would he do once he found out Loki’s true parentage? He had made his beliefs clear from childhood: he wanted all Frost Giants slain. He would not look on Loki as a brother once he knew that he was the offspring of a Jotun. He would no longer be “brother,” but “foe.” The thought panicked Loki, and he rose to leave, fearful that even now, Thor was on his way back to them.

As he approached the door, it suddenly swung open before him, and a row of armored guards blocked his exit. Loki took a step back, unsure of where to flee should they come at him. He felt his heart leap into his throat. There was no escape.

But they said nothing. They did nothing but kneel. Of course, they were in the presence of their queen. Loki could not take his eyes off of them, he was so afraid and confusion clouded his features.

Another guard entered the chamber, bearing the Gungnir, Odin’s royal spear. He knelt before Loki, offering it up to him with both hands while avoiding his gaze. So they did not know, Loki thought with pleasure. He looked back to Frigga, where she sat regally, as befitting her status as queen.

“Thor is banished. The line of succession falls to you,” she said, her voice even and void of emotion. “Until Odin awakens, Asgard is yours.”

Loki could not believe what he was hearing. He felt as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders, and his parentage melted away leaving no stain upon his soul. Tentatively, he lifted the Gungnir and let the warmth of the metal travel up his arms and spread throughout his body.

“Make your father proud,” Frigga said. He turned towards her, slowly, letting the weight of the Gungnir settle on his palms. His fingers gripped the shaft tightly, as if he could not grasp the reality of what he was feeling and hearing. His mother smiled and bowed her head. “My king,” she uttered.

Loki looked up at her. He liked the feel of the Gungnir in his hands.

.....................................................................

Loki retreated to his quarters and lay the Gungnir on his bed. Then he picked it up again. He paced the room, holding the spear in both hands. King of Asgard. No one knew of his Jotun origins. What should he do now?

Go be king. Of course.

But how?

Well, if he was going to be the king, he ought to look the part. He quickly donned his formal attire – the elaborate gold armor and long green cape, his beloved helmet with menacing golden horns. Looking out beneath the brow always gave him a feeling of kingliness.

“Loki, King of Asgard,” he said, pulling his shoulders back and pushing his chest out.

The words felt _right._

“You are no king.”

Loki spun around, startled by the sudden voice. He looked about his chambers, but saw no one.

“Who’s there?” he ventured, the Gungnir gripped tightly in his hands.

Instead of a reply, the windows flew open, and a raven swooped into his room, landing softly on the decorative posts around the bed. Loki sighed. One of Odin’s pets, come to lend him regal status, no doubt. “Are you Hugin or Munin?” he asked sarcastically. “I could never tell you two apart.” The raven croaked and clicked its blue-black nails against the gilded post. Load of good this one was.

“Get out of here,” Loki said, trying to coax the raven out the window. But the bird only lifted and circled overhead. “Foolish bird.” Thinking it perhaps wanted to get to Odin, Loki opened the heavy door to his chamber, and the raven slipped out as quickly as it had come in. Relieved, he moved to shut the door once more, but the sight of the bird sitting placidly on the floor, its eyes eerily fixed onto Loki’s, made him hesitate. “What?” he asked, slightly confrontational. “Odin’s down the hall, third door on your left. You know that.” The bird flapped its wings without taking off.

“Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes as he moved through the doorway. The guards were nowhere to be seen. Strange.

The raven gave two small hops before lifting into the air, leading Loki in the opposite direction of his father and the throne room. “Where are we going?” he mumbled to himself. His cape billowed behind him gently and tangled itself around the Gungnir. Down darkened hallways Loki wandered, illuminated only by a few sconces on the wall. The raven became increasingly difficult to distinguish from the blackness, and Loki thought about casting a magical light to help him see. But before he could do so, he found the raven perched on the doorframe to another heavy golden door. Unlike the rest of the palace, this door was undecorated. Instead, a complex network of locks and spirals adorned the surface.

“You want me to go in here?” Loki asked. The raven blinked at him but made no noise. Loki reached out and tried to turn the handle, but it would not move. “It’s locked,” he said dumbly. Gods, he was talking to a bird.

The raven float down from his perch and knocked at the Gungnir, almost tearing it out of Loki’s hand. “Hey!” he scolded as the bird flapped back to the top of the doorframe. Loki looked once more at the door. At its center was a golden plate with a strange-shaped opening, exactly the shape of… the Gungnir!

He slowly inserted the spear into the lock, and when he could go no further, he twisted the shaft, feeling the vibrations of a hundred mechanisms split apart and ring against each other’s metallic surfaces. The door split down the middle and creaked open laboriously, emitting a low but warm glow that made Loki blink in surprise.

The raven flew inside first. Loki gripped the Gungnir tight in anticipation, preparing himself for the worst. The spear was a comfort to him now, reassuring his authority and place as king. He could not imagine ever being without it again.

The room he entered was small and round, sconces lining the golden walls only at about waist height. The floors glimmered marble black and reflected the dancing flames emitting the soft light. A golden chair with velvet red cushions sat at the center of the room, facing away from the door and obscuring Loki’s view. What would he find there?

As he drew closer, Loki perceived the raven perched upon an elaborate gold box, rather large, and set upon a white marble pillar. The box depicted several battle scenes: some warriors were throwing spears, some shooting arrows, and, in one gory engraving, a man was being decapitated with an abnormally large sword. As Loki approached it, the raven left the box and rested itself on the back of the chair.

Loki saw no lid or hinges. He looked back at the raven. “I suppose you couldn’t tell me how to open this?” he asked. The bird said nothing. “Thought so.”

He reached out and gently brushed his fingertips against the golden surface. It was warm. But a moment later, it began to melt.

“Oh no,” Loki gasped. He tried to hold the box together as best he could, the Gungnir still grasped in one hand, but the gold began to fall away with increasing speed. Surprisingly, the molten metal was not hot, and as it dripped onto the floor, it sank into the cracks and disappeared. Magic!

As more gold melted away, Loki began to perceive the thing that lay inside of it. First, a tuft of white hair emerged, as pure as the Asgardian winters, and soon after, patches of wrinkled skin dotted with the signs of old age. In disbelief, Loki fell backwards into the chair, watching as a severed head appeared on the pillar before him. Its beard was as white as the hair that sat atop its skull, and its lips were cracked and bloodless. When the gold had all melted away, the head opened its eyes, revealing irises of the deepest blue. The lips parted and emitted a strained and failing voice.

“Loki Laufeyson,” it said. The sound of his true surname punched through Loki’s heart and made his chest ache.

“How do you know me?” he asked.

“I am Mimir,” the head replied. “I know everything.”

“Mimir?”

“I see Munin has led you here. You must be seeking answers.”

“I’m sorry… what?”

The head sighed and licked its lips. Its tongue was black and unsettling.

“I am a friend and counselor of Odin,” Mimir spoke. “The Allfather comes to me in times of great trouble, and I offer what knowledge I possess. It is my figure you see on the door when you enter Asgard’s archives.”

“Why does Odin need you?” Loki asked, his voice more curious than accusatory.

“Before the War of the Gods, I drank from the Well of Knowledge. I now see past, present, and future, of all the Nine Realms, with great clarity. I know what is, what was, and what will be, even after the Vanir separated my head from my body and sent me back to Odin.”

“Does anyone know you’re here?” Loki asked.

“No. The Allfather keeps me hidden, for my knowledge is a great weapon.”

Loki’s curiosity could not be controlled. If he could find this well, he could know everything, including how to protect himself.

“The well is destroyed,” Mimir said, as if reading Loki’s mind. “And you, King of Asgard, are but enthroned for a short time.”

Loki became irritated. It must have been Mimir’s voice he’d heard back in his chambers, the one that had told him he was no king. Why would Odin’s bird bring him here only to be mocked?

“Odin lies in the Odinsleep, and you have control of Asgard,” Mimir continued. “But I see your heart is troubled. Questions about your origins cloud your mind.”

“Very astute,” Loki mumbled.

“A king cannot rule with a troubled heart.”

“Is _that_ why the Allfather needs you? Because he is weak?” The thought of Odin, the great hero idolized by all of Asgard, needing to unburden himself emotionally in order to be king sickened Loki. Had not Odin been stoic and statuesque for as long as Loki could remember? His father – no, his _king_ – was not the Asgardian Loki thought he knew. _I guess we do have something in common, then,_ Loki thought. _We are both liars._

“Stop twisting my words, Loki Laufeyson,” Mimir said.

“Don’t call me that!” Loki spat.

“It is who you are.”

“Am I?” Loki’s voice was desperate. “How can I be, when my whole life has been shaped by hatred of the enemy?”

“Hatred…” Mimir ventured. “But hatred of whom? Who is your enemy, Laufeyson?”

The head’s response stunned Loki into silence. No one had spoken to him with such candor before, and for the first time, Loki found himself comfortable in the sea of chaos that was his identity. He did not have to choose one side or the other, Asgard or Jotunheim. Both were corrupt and in need of a king with true valor. Loki could fashion his own world. He could be the king that Odin was not.

“Tell me about my past.”

“I do not serve you, Loki of Jotunheim. My knowledge is not for you to use.”

“You serve the king of Asgard-“

“I serve Odin alone,” Mimir interrupted.

“Then why do you counsel me?”

“I have given nothing of my own advice or knowledge to you. All I have said already rests in your heart. I merely gave them words.”

Loki knew convincing this head to share its knowledge would be difficult, to say the least. Like him, Mimir was a master of words, possessing the ability to encapsulate all that Loki felt in the simplest of phrases. Those words that came from the cracked lips resonated in Loki’s chest in such a way that both made him simultaneously feel at peace with himself and uneasy about his identity. Chaos – but trickster gods thrived best in chaos, didn’t they? Loki thirsted for answers of his past, his present, and his future, and now, he began to ponder a new strategy for eliciting information from the omnipotent being.

“I propose a bargain,” he said at last. Mimir lifted an eyebrow.

“You possess nothing I neither want nor require, Laufeyson,” the head replied. Loki struggled to control his irritation from the repeated sound of his surname.

“There must be something,” he said, “Or else why would you be so faithful to Odin? What did the Allfather have to do to gain your loyalty and friendship?”

“Nothing. I have always been a friend to the King of Asgard.”

“ _I_ am king of Asgard now,” Loki spat. “The will of Odin is for peace. I can bring that peace. I can lead Asgard to victory, just as the Allfather desires. His wishes are mine. Tell me what I want to know!”

“No.”

Loki sighed in frustration, but before he could continue, Mimir spoke.

“You are no son of Asgard, Loki Laufeyson.”

“Why am I no son of Asgard?” he challenged. “Because of my parentage? I look like Asgardians, don’t I? I am not blue-skinned and red-eyed like the rest of those monsters.”

Mimir chuckled. “I see what you are trying to do.”

Loki felt his frustration burning his heart from inside. His attempts to draw Mimir into conversation were failing spectacularly, a failure that he only remembered encountering in his youth. Belittled, he began to sulk in the chair, twisting the Gungnir swiftly in his hand.

“You have many questions, Loki of Jotunheim,” Mimir said after a long silence, “I will answer three of them. Choose wisely, for I will speak to you no more after this brief engagement.” A pause. “And be warned: you may not find comfort in the answers you seek.”

Loki’s heart leapt to life. His past! He could finally know who he was, why Odin had taken him, and what he would do!

“I will not reveal your future,” Mimir spoke. “That knowledge is dangerous for anyone, even Odin, to possess. I fear it would be of no use to you.”

So he was limited to the past and present. Even so, such knowledge would illuminate his darkened mind, give him what he needed to survive and prove himself a rightful Asgardian. Loki sat poised in his chair, the Gungnir held regally at his right side.

“When the Frost Giant touched me on Jotunheim-“

“You are wondering why you do not always look like them,” Mimir finished for him.

“Yes.”

“Jotun bodies react to their world. They are blue because they live in ice. If exposed to extreme heat, they will lose their pigment and melt.”

“But I was on Jotunheim and I did not change appearance until one of them touched me.”

“That is the second reason why you do not look like them,” Mimir continued. “When Odin found you, he used an Asgardian spell to sever that connection to the icy world, to protect you from your true origins and the hatred from the citizens of his kingdom. Only contact with anything of Jotunheim can pierce through that magic and reveal who you truly are. But be warned: any weakness of a Frost Giant is also one of yours. Jotuns may prevail on Asgard, but none of that race may survive the fire for long.”

So he couldn’t get too hot. _Useful,_ Loki thought sarcastically. Mimir’s face made gave no indication that it had heard him. 

“But I am still the son of a king. Why didn’t Laufey come for me?” Loki asked.

“This,” Mimir said, “is knowledge you may not wish to hear.”

“Tell me,” he demanded. Mimir sighed.

“Odin informed you that as an infant, you were small for a giant’s offspring.”

“Yes.”

“Laufey’s shame that one of his own sons was so small and weak led him to abandon you in the Temple of Knowledge during the siege on Jotunheim.”

Loki wanted to know more, but he did not want to use the last of the three allotted questions. Carefully, he framed his words in hopes of baiting the head to continue talking. “Temple of…?”

“The Temple of Knowledge. It once housed the well from which I drank and which bestowed this sight and wisdom upon me. It was destroyed long before Laufey’s forces ever came to power in Jotunheim. Not all Frost Giants were enemies of Asgard. They destroyed the well before Laufey could drink from it, and for their loyalty to universal peace, they were slain.”

Loki had never heard of this alliance, nor had he read about it in the archives of Asgard. The records must have been altered, he thought, when the hope for peace was no longer present. Asgard needed a common enemy. Torn loyalties and hope for the recovery of a time long past would only weaken Odin’s forces.

Mimir paused before setting himself back to the subject of Loki’s lineage. “Two of Laufey’s children still live as warriors in his army. They are the fiercest of all the Jotun soldiers. But you – your weakness was a blight upon his image. He believes you perished and has no knowledge of your connection. To him, you are an Odinson, and nothing will convince him otherwise.”

Loki sat in silence, letting Mimir’s revelation sink into his bones. So he was unwanted. He was not a hostage. Odin had simply pitied him, and the thought of the Allfather’s pity angered him. He might have some brothers or half-brothers, but Loki found himself unable to care. For all he knew, Laufey had a million giantesses at his disposal. He could be the bastard son of a king, rather than a prince. The thought of his royal blood being sullied by such a prospect left him feeling cold. He wanted to be warm.

“To them I am an Odinson, but to you I am Laufeyson,” he lamented. “I belong nowhere.”

“Would you like to know about your mother?” Mimir asked gently. So Loki did have one question left.

Loki did not reply, but instead brought his fingers to his lips, hoping to hide the emotion he was straining to keep inside of him. Though he knew Mimir’s foresight was ever-present, the physical act of concealment was a comfort to him.

But did he want to know about his mother, his real mother? He thought of Frigga and all the tenderness she had shown him from as far back as he could remember. He recalled her casting illusions for him, tiny horses and wolves that pranced around the room, emitting sparkling green light. Together, they sat hunched over illuminated manuscripts, reading stories and spellcasting for hours on end while Thor and Odin talked weaponry in the courtyard. When Loki felt sad or hurt, when he felt ignored by his father, Frigga was always there to comfort him with a gentle word and a loving embrace. She stroked the back of his neck and smoothed his hair, planting kisses on his forehead even when he grew tall enough to see over her curls. She was always warm.

“No,” he said at last. Mimir seemed pleased with his answer.

“Your last inquiry?” the head ventured. Loki leaned forward in his seat, his eyes staring into the icy blue of the head’s.

“Will I be king?” he asked. “With Thor banished, will I rule Asgard?”

“I will not reveal the future,” Mimir spat, his voice containing an edge of annoyance.

“I have no other queries,” Loki replied.

“I told you the dangers of foresight are great.”

“As king of Asgard, your loyalty is to me until Odin awakens. I demand this information of you.”

“The price of hidden knowledge is high indeed,” he said, “and requires great sacrifice.” The head closed its right eye in a laborious wink, as if trying to communicate something to Loki, but he could not understand its meaning. Mimir opened his eye again and continued to speak in a painfully slow voice. “What will you sacrifice, child of Jotunheim, for the knowledge you seek?”

 _Well, certainly not one of my body parts,_ Loki thought. Mimir smiled at him, revealing distressingly gray teeth.

“What do you require?” Loki asked, his heart fluttering in nervous tension.

“It is not I that require anything, but the balance of the cosmos.” The head licked its cracked lips and Loki steeled himself to reply.

“Take what you will,” he said. “Nothing matters more than my pursuit.” Mimir smiled an ugly, knowing smirk. Loki briefly wondered what it was that he would be sacrificing, but his desire for his future consumed him completely, eclipsing any care he might have held for anything else in his life.

“Your debt will be paid, in time,” Mimir told him. “On the eve of the Convergence.”

 _Lovely,_ Loki thought. _That must be centuries away._

“Fine,” Loki replied. “Now tell me what I want to know.”

Mimir hesitated before finally offering his answer.

“As long as Thor lives,” he said slowly, “Your hold on Asgard will be limited.”

Of course. Thor hated the Frost Giants. From childhood, he always talked about hunting them down and slaying every last one of their race. Should he ever return to Asgard, he would surely not hesitate to start with Loki.

“Tell me-“ Loki began, eager to receive counsel on how to best protect himself. But Mimir cut him off before he could say any more.

“I will speak to you no longer,” Mimir replied. “Goodbye, Loki Laufeyson.”

A molten ooze began to leak from the pores of Mimir’s wrinkled skin. His eyes closed as the liquid gold began to envelop him, encasing the head in a gooey mass. “Wait!” Loki shouted, reaching out towards the head. His fingers touched the gold, but it was hot, so hot that Loki was forced to recoil from it in pain. As he nursed his scorched hand, the gold solidified into the box he had encountered when he had entered not long ago. The raven croaked and flew out of the room.

A strange collection of emotions pulsed through Loki’s veins and he could not bring himself to leave the chamber just yet. So Laufey was ashamed of him for being weak. Odin pitied him for being weak. _Well,_ he thought, _I will show them how strong I am._

He would prove himself worthy to be a son of Asgard. He would eliminate Jotunheim and show Odin he was not one of Laufey’s race. He would bring peace to the nine realms, peace Odin wanted, through Jotunheim’s destruction. He would prove himself so great that even Thor would be proud of him.

But Thor’s presence in Asgard threatened his own, and Loki was far too fond of living to let his brother get in the way of that. He raised himself out of the chair and walked swiftly out of the chamber, letting the heavy doors close noisily behind him and the locks swivel into place once more.

 _Thor,_ he thought, as he rushed out to the throne of Asgard. _Thor must not come back._


End file.
